GFI
by carnifax
Summary: House's subconscious played tricks on him, gave him hallucinations, but always for a reason—and this time, there was no reason. There was only bitter, ruthless reality. Post "97 Seconds." HouseWilson.


**G.F.I.**

By Carnifax  
House M.D.  
House/Wilson  
Rated T  
Romance/Hurt/Comfort  
_Post "97 Seconds." Wilson gets back at House for the electrocution stunt by shoving the switchblade into his own outlet. HouseWilson._

And here comes yet _another_ House/Wilson "House gets freaked" one-shot. I like them...

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"Theoretically, the more you jam your chubby, dry finger into that button, the faster the elevator _should_ get here. Unfortunately, that theory was actually disproved when Newton wrote that book, _Mein Kampf_, about the physics of whether it's worse to have ten dead babies nailed to one tree or one dead baby nailed to ten trees."

The nurse's brow lifted skeptically, her gaze moving to House. He cracked his cane against the side of her crash cart and then used it to press the elevator's down arrow, returning her suspicious glare.

"I thought you said pressing the button again didn't help?"

"Oh," he swooned, "you're _clever_!" He leaned on his cane, one eye squinted. "Too bad there was a corollary to the dead baby thing, written by Gregor Mendel, who said that pee could either be green, yellow or wrinkled _and_ that, when pressed by a flame-cane, buttons automatically surrender to the cane-wielder's whim."

As the elevator chirped a happy _ping_, the nurse chuckled.

"What," House snapped, stepping ahead of her through the doors. "You _doubted_ the great Gregor Mend—"

"_House_!"

The nurse jumped as Cuddy stalked closer from down the dark hallway. House stuck his head out of the elevator and gave a theatric sigh, sharing a look with the nurse.

"I always tell her," he mumbled, "wait 'til there's no one around to call me in for a private session of administrator-fantasy bondage love-love time, but does she listen? _No_, she does _not_—"

"House," Cuddy said again, "My office. Now."

"It's midnight," he argued, pointing at his watch-less wrist. "I should've been home—"

"No, if _you_ hadn't declared the state of fictional infection that led to the needless evacuation of this entire _wing_, you would've been home earlier." She crossed her arms and turned, walking back toward her office. "As it stands, you're either in my office in sixty seconds or you will do the clinic hours for your entire team. I have something to give you."

House stood still a moment, eyes cast toward the floor, and finally he hobbled after her with a too-loud, "I hope it's a blowjob!"

Seconds later they were in her office and a colorful book was extended towards him, with a toaster and hairdryer on the cover. "You have a sudden fondness for electric devices," he guessed, taking the book grudgingly. "Do you need help fixing that dildo, or…"

"Look at the title, House," Cuddy sighed, sinking into the couch. "Read it aloud for the class."

"'Electric Boy and the Dangers of Bathtubs'?" House snorted, flipping open to the middle of the book. "'When in the shower, don't put anything powered in the water of your tub. When it goes _plap_ you'll go _zap zap_ and then you'll go _blub blub_'?"

"It's supposed to rhyme."

"When in the shower, don't put anything powered…" His eyes narrowed. "Rhymes a _little_, if you tilt your head and squint one eye and are mentally unstable—What's it for?"

She raked a hand through her hair and set a steady gaze on him. "You electrocuted yourself once, House. Try not to do it again."

House held up his burned palm and waved it. "It'll be tough. Those outlets are _so darn alluring_!"

"That was less than a week ago," she said, straightening in her seat as if to silently chastise him. "If anything can get through to you, it will rhyme, be childish and be so ridiculous that you can make fun of it as much as you want, and still understand the main concept." She waved one hand toward the door, massaging her eyes with the other. "Go see Wilson, drag him out of his office. He's still here—you know how scared he was, don't you? When you were—"

"Yeah, okay, I get it!" House tucked the book into the pocket of his coat and limped back out into the hallway. He was a few feet from Wilson's office when the already-dim lights of the hallway flickered, and a flare of blue light lit up the hallway with a blinding glow.

House took two hesitant steps toward the office door, and when the lights flickered off and a heavy _thunk_ landed on the floor, he threw the cane aside and grabbed for the handle.

Wilson had locked the door. House let loose a string of curses, pounding on the wood, jiggling the handle, fishing in his jacket for a key he knew wouldn't be there.

"_Cuddy!_" he yelled, hopping away from the door. He picked up the cane and moved toward his own office, halfway through the doorway when the clack of Cuddy's heels reached his ears.

"House, what are—"

"Get a crash cart, stat," he ordered tersely. "Wilson just pulled a House."

He shoved through the balcony door and clambered over the barrier between their offices. The outside door was locked as well, but the glass now taunted House with the clear view of the oncologist. He wasn't moving, his hand was blackened and for a single moment, House felt like he was staring down at himself.

And then he raised his cane, swung it and broke the pane of glass. He felt twinges on his face where stray shards caught him but they were unnoticeable as he pushed into the room.

Cuddy's face was in the window of the office, her quick knuckles rapping on the door. House barely looked at Wilson as he went to unlock the door for Cuddy and a nurse. Cuddy knelt beside Wilson, fingers searching for a pulse at his neck and throat.

The nurse gave out a grunt as she tried to maneuver the cart through the tiny office door. "It's stuck!" she said just before it freed itself, nearly hitting Cuddy.

"Get that thing charged!" House took a step back, to allow the nurse through. Watching her struggle with the machine, he smacked his cane on Wilson's desk, breaking more than one picture frame.

"Not helping!" Cuddy barked, unable to scold him and do CPR simultaneously.

House ignored her. "Defibrillator! _Now_!"

The nurse's expression was blank when he looked at her again. "It's—it's not—I don't know why, it's not working—not charging—"

Cuddy checked for a pulse again and shot a look at the nurse. "Was that by the elevator on the first floor?"

"Yeah—it said third floor, I thought someone had left it there so I brought it back up, and—"

"That's broken," Cuddy interrupted, a terrified whisper.

For a moment, everything was silent, and then House shook his head. "You _idiot_!" he bellowed, hitting the wall with his cane. "You're—"

"House, help me!" Cuddy shouted over him, continuing to administer CPR. The nurse flitted out the door, yelling for help despite the dark, empty halls, disappearing completely after a few seconds.

House knelt by Cuddy when she tugged on his pant leg, hands about to skim over Wilson's chest when his eye caught the blackened outlet on the wall, with that familiar switchblade sticking out of it. He paused, staring. Wilson had managed to get his hands on the _same_ knife—

"House!"

"How did he…" He leaned toward the outlet, about to grab the knife when Cuddy yanked him away from it, her eyes wide with confusion and fear.

"House, if you don't—"

"This doesn't make sense," he murmured, shifting to stand up. "Why would he—"

"I don't care _why_, or if you need to know why—you can ask him, _after_ you get him breathing—" She gasped back a sob, checking for a pulse again. House only watched from above, seeing the tears brim at her eyes and spill over, dashing down her cheeks.

"It isn't logical…"

"Who gives a damn if it's _logical_?" Cuddy's hands fell limp in her lap, shaking her head. "He's been out too long, House, he's—"

"He was just lecturing me…Did he want _vengeance_?"

"_House_…"

He turned to look at her, and then looked down at Wilson. In the dark of the room her looked merely asleep, but he was still, and a sudden rush of desperation came over House and he needed to escape, to get away from his motionless friend.

"House, I can't… Unless you can help him…" Her eyes spilled more tears and her lip quivered, her entire frame trembling.

"No," House said suddenly, "I can't do anything. _Anything_. I can't… I can't do it."

"House—"

"I have a defibrillator," the nurse gasped, appearing in the doorway again. But she suddenly grew quiet when Cuddy looked up at her, and the tiniest _Oh my god_ slipped past her lips. "Is he…?"

"Move," House barked, shoving into the hallway. He could hear Cuddy yelling his name but it didn't register. Someone tried to grab his shoulder; he shrugged the hand off, limping as fast as he could toward the hospital entrance.

House felt himself drive home and collapse onto his apartment's couch. Movement was involuntary, as if he were in a bad dream that he couldn't stop, that he couldn't wake up from. His subconscious played tricks on him, gave him hallucinations, but always for a reason—and this time, there was no reason. There was only bitter, ruthless reality.

Minutes passed. House didn't look at the clock—he couldn't; his eyes were glued to the black television screen—and his mind was whirring too fast to comprehend the idea of time. He was thinking, but trying _not_ to think, and thinking about not thinking. And thinking about Wilson.

It didn't make _sense_. Wilson was capable of playing vindictive games with him, but why electrocution? Why… why copy House's idea? To shove it in his face, to say 'Now you know how _I_ felt'? That wasn't like Wilson—but did he _know_ Wilson, at all? House didn't think Wilson would stick a switchblade into an outlet—he himself would, certainly, but not Wilson—and look where the oncologist had put himself.

_Dead._ The word felt surreal. And yet, House knew it would become real in a few hours, maybe a few days, and when it became real to him, he _knew_ it would hurt. The ground would shake, the earth would crack, the oceans would boil… and the pain in his leg would almost be a pleasant alternative.

At the thought, House went for his bottle of pills, but the cheery rattle of Vicodin was missing. Quickly, House tossed the empty bottle over his shoulder, not even attempting to give a damn or think of a witty remark. The pills didn't matter. His leg didn't hurt right now.

The phone rang, and House ignored it. His cellphone rang shortly after, and he ignored _that_ as well. They didn't matter, _nothing mattered_.

Anger and spite flared through his veins all at once and he stood up, smashing the phone off the endtable with his cane. Wilson had just… had just… _gone_ and these people—they were trying to _call_ House? What, was a patient _sick_? Did another rich bastard need an MRI? Oh, poor, _poor_ them—

House fished his cellphone from his pocket and flipped it open. After a minute, he snapped it cleanly in half, throwing it into the wall. As the plastic clacked desolately onto the hardwood floor, House sank back into the couch, staring ahead again.

Maybe Wilson was unhappy. Well, that was one of the requirements for his job, but… was he so unhappy with life that he would willingly risk his life—_take_ his life—just to end his problems? He'd locked the doors to his office… _Locked_ them. And he didn't page anyone, he didn't even know anyone was still around. Did he expect _any_one to help him? To _save_ him?

There was a knock at the door. House was on his feet, pulled to the threshold by some outside force. He twisted the doorknob, opened the door—

"House…"

—and succinctly closed it.

House spoke through the door, leaning his head against it. "You have brown hair, brown eyes, resemble Wilson and are _clearly_ a hallucination."

"House, open the door."

The diagnostician ran a hand through his hair, swallowing. "Very convincing, subconscious."

He could hear Wilson sigh from the other side of the door. "House," came the gentle voice, "I'm not your subconscious. Let me in so I can explain."

"No." House closed his eyes, touching the cool handle of the cane to his forehead. "I don't understand the logic behind what happened, and so my mind is trying to formulate an explanation by having a pseudo-Wilson elucidate things." He shook his head, opening his eyes. "Sorry, subconscious. That was a solid plan, though."

"House, will you just let me in?"

"Not a chance."

Wilson sighed again. There was a soft knock, as if he had put a palm against the door. "Listen. You can be as analytical as you want, as long as I'm inside the apartment. Standing out here is just really…" There was a pause. "House, _please_, open the damn door!"

Silence. And then, still uncertain, House pulled the door open. "Was that a metaphor for my relationship with Wilson, subconscious?"

Wilson let out a breath and came into the apartment, rubbing a hand nervously against the back of his neck. His eyes caught on the smashed phone, but he only winced and looked up at House. From the time the door cracked open, that laser-blue gaze had been locked on him, scrutinizing him, dissecting every movement.

"I think I should start explaining myself to myself now," House suggested. "But it's your call, subconscious. Which means… it's _my_ call." He prodded Wilson with the end of the cane. "So start talking. How did you get that knife?"

"I've had it ever since your little _accident_," Wilson answered, shrugging as he sat on the couch. "It was in my desk drawer."

"How are you _not_…" House swallowed hard again. "…not _dead_."

Wilson recognized the pain in his tone and stood up again, reaching out a little. House shied away.

"Explanation?" House pressed instead.

"It was revenge," Wilson said, his outstretched hand falling limply to his side. "We tricked you—Cuddy and I planned it. We planted the broken defibrillator and the useless nurse, and Cuddy said she'd make sure you didn't check my pulse." He rifled a hand through his hair, mussing it. "It was really just careful timing."

House considered that for a moment, and shook his head. "That's a horrible explanation, subconscious."

"It's true," Wilson argued lightly. "And I'm not in your hea—"

"But the knife was in the wall!" House mimed stabbing a switchblade into an outlet. "And your hand—that one! It's burned! So was the wall—"

Wilson rubbed the palm of his hand, then held it out. House took a step away, but noticed the thumb-sized patch of skin showing through.

"It's _paint_, House…"

Still unconvinced, House narrowed his eyes. "The lights flickering—that looked real. That _was_ real."

For once, Wilson nodded agreement. "That _was_ real. I really did jab a knife into an outlet."

"But how—"

"Ground fault interrupters."

House stared. "What?"

"The outlet was one of those ground fault interrupters—a GFI." Wilson let his mouth curve into a small smile. "Cuddy installed them while you were unconscious from your _own_ electrocution, and now the whole floor has them."

House frowned. "What _are_ they?"

"They stop the flow of electricity if something glitches," Wilson answered easily. "If something trips the circuit—water, a toddler with a fork, an oncologist with a switchblade—the power cuts off."

"GFI," House repeated. "That's… interesting."

"So… I'm sorry, House." Wilson reached out his arm. "That stunt seemed necessary, but now… I'm pretty sure it was just a cruel prank."

House didn't shake his hand or reply; he blinked, meeting Wilson's gaze. "I… don't believe you."

Wilson laughed despite himself. "Your subconscious didn't even know what a ground fault interrupter _was_—how could it make that up?"

"I probably saw it advertised in passing," House said, lowering his eyes. "Or maybe they don't exist."

"Maybe they don't…?" Wilson gaped at him in disbelief. "Why don't you Google it, then?"

"You're a hallucination," House muttered. "If my subconscious can recreate a person, it can _definitely_ create a website to correspond."

Wilson threw up his hands. "You're incredible. You'll believe a well-played prank, but you can't believe that you've been Punk'd?"

"Well, then I would be hallucinating about Ashton—"

"I'm _not_ a hallucination!" Wilson exploded, nearly shouting. "What can I do to prove that I'm _real_?"

House looked at him with an even gaze. "Nothing. You can't do anything."

"How do you usually escape hallucinations?" His voice was still too loud for midnight. "Do you… drink? Do you… take a few more Vicodin?"

"I do something that I would never do in real life, something that goes too far to actually happen." House smirked. "Last time, I had to rip a patient's abdomen open on the operating table to snap out of it."

Wilson blinked. "_No_," he said, slowly. "Killing someone is _out_ of the question."

"_You_'re my subconscious—_you_ do something, then!"

"I'm _not in your head_," Wilson murmured. He took a few steps closer.

This time, House didn't have time to shy away before painted fingers fisted in his hair, or before the warm mouth pushed delicately against his own. The world swirled into surrealism again as Wilson's tongue drew a wet line across his lower lip, clouding both his mind and the lines of reality. House quickly parted his lips, his free hand grabbing Wilson by the tie, yanking him closer when the oncologist tried to take a breath.

A badly-timed knock on the door made House swear into Wilson's mouth. He took a step back, threw the man an apologetic glance and then turned to practically yank the door from its hinges.

"House, I tried to call—"

"Good evening, Doctor Cuddy," House interrupted smoothly. Her face went from anxious to suspicious in less than half a second; he laughed.

"I just came to say that that was a skit," she said, perplexed by the smile stretching across his face. "Wilson's _okay_. He's _not_ dead."

"I noticed," House said, opening the door wide enough for Cuddy to see the oncologist in the background.

"Oh." She nodded in understanding. "So you aren't… angry, or malicious or anything? Should I be worried about my birth control pills being replaced with—"

"Your ovaries are safe," House cut in. He looked back at Wilson, who cleared his throat. "I've learned my lesson."

And then he closed the door on her, shrugging as he turned to face Wilson again.

"So you've finally decided that I'm real?" Wilson asked, putting his hands on his hips.

Squinting, House pointed a reproachful finger at his chest. "You _kissed_ me," he accused hotly.

"_You_ kissed _me_," Wilson countered, "_and_ you broke my office window."

"You pretended to kill yourself!"

"You actually _tried_ to kill yourself!" With a chuckle, Wilson shook his head. "Give it up, House. Your exploits top mine every time."

The diagnostician regarded him silently, until finally he nodded. "I'll forgive you," he declared, "_if_ you make me macadamia nut pancakes and that delectable caramel hot chocolate."

Wilson checked his watch with good-natured skepticism. "House, it's nearly one in the morning. You can't expect me to make—"

House tugged on his tie and cut him off with a brief kiss. "Make them for breakfast, then."

The oncologist smirked, brow raised. "What, am I going to run over here before work tomorrow and—"

House kissed him again, and this time jerked Wilson's tie rather forcefully, keeping a hold on it as he took two steps away from the door. "I think it would be easier," he said, leading Wilson farther into the apartment, "if you just… _slept over_."

Wilson pretended to think on it; when House started to loosen his tie, he chuckled, giving in. "Macadamia nut pancakes and hot chocolate, it is."

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